


1978

by shocked_into_shame



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1970s, Alternate Universe - College/University, Billy being an asshole, Blow Jobs, Dancing, Disco, Drug Use, Falling In Love, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Music, Period-Typical Homophobia, Semi-Public Sex, Smut, basically me worshipping the 70s for 8k, lots of dumb references, the second chapter is just images which inspired me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-12
Updated: 2019-04-12
Packaged: 2020-01-12 02:30:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18437171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shocked_into_shame/pseuds/shocked_into_shame
Summary: The year is 1978, Billy Hargrove is a student at the University of Chicago, and when he meets Steve Harrington - his absolute antithesis in terms of fashion and taste - he is powerless to resist.AKA the 1970s College AU that no one asked for





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to the BF for listening to me gab about this endlessly and for helping me pick out tunes.
> 
> And thank you to discord peeps for being supportive. 
> 
> This is basically just an ode to the fashion and music of the 70s, but I'm stupidly proud of it. I hope you enjoy.
> 
> Listen along at this link: http://cueyoutube.com/#_284RNK8eCo,9koZQTrIXVg,A-lTQ00nzf8,TvQWBXJOgAI,I_izvAbhExY,zUwEIt9ez7M,uk_wUT1CvWM,kO-SQSqO23s,EWcCl-EhRVE,V5AztWseIdU,h1qQ1SKNlgY,G_1LP3Z6pW4,lXgkuM2NhYI,

The year was 1978, and Billy Hargrove felt pretty good about his life. After being ripped away from his beloved home of the California coast by his dad and new stepmother, he had finally gotten a semblance of freedom when he got accepted to the University of Chicago. And now the vast streets of Chicago called out to him, and he spent most nights hopping from bar to bar, listening to rock bands and getting high in his ratty apartment.

 

But, most of all, he went to university. Studied political science, which was a mature enough choice to calm his father, but interesting enough that he didn’t feel like dying every time he thought about going to class. And the prospect of moving on to work - the prospect of affecting change in some way - made him feel like a badass. His mom, who had fiercely protested the Vietnam War before she passed away, not even able to see it end, would have been proud of him.

 

He gently thumbed the macrame bracelet he always wore, which had belonged to his late mother. He had to extend it by adding a clasp, on account of her dainty wrists, but he found that it somehow worked, and didn’t clash against the rest of his look. And it brought him comfort, along with the Catholic medallion that she gave him on his First Communion. 

 

He tried not to get bogged down by his past these days. Tried to push away the thoughts of fighting and the thoughts of the harsh punch of his father's fists against his body. He was in a new city, and was 18 years old, and Led Zeppelin, Black Sabbath, Deep Purple - all of the greats - guided him through his days. 

 

The one small stain on his peace was a core class he was forced to take at his university - a public speaking course. It’s not that he didn’t like speaking in front of people. He had a knack for captivation, and could make anyone hang on his every word. But he didn’t know anyone in the class, not really, and the professor obviously didn’t care for him. 

 

He understood why. His professor was a buttoned-up man, with a mustache that reminded him a little too much of his father for comfort. And when Billy strolled in on the first day of class, his wild head of blonde curls falling around his face, down past his shoulders, donning a skin-tight Zoso t-shirt and low-rise flare jeans, his professor had eyed him up and down and immediately dismissed him.

 

That was fine by him. It’d just be even more of a surprise when he inevitably got the highest grade in the class. 

 

Perhaps the only saving grace of the whole experience was the boy who sat toward the back of the lecture hall, always dressed so prim and proper. Billy vaguely remembered that his name was  _ Steven _ and he had hair that reminded Billy of Andy Gibb, ending just above his collar with feathery bangs that framed his face.

 

Very far removed from his typical pension for long hair and leather, Steve often wore polyester pants and button downs. But he made it work. Billy found himself sending lingering looks toward Steve whenever he entered the lecture hall, noting his pants or his shirt or the fact that some days he wore wire framed, round glasses. 

 

The first time they had to deliver a speech to the class about any governmental topic, Billy had knocked it out of the park with his rousing discussion of Watergate. He was quite surprised when Steve shyly took his place at the podium and stumbled his way through his speech about his veteran grandfather, making a strange connection to his time on the basketball team in high school. 

 

Steve was usually so outgoing, making conversation with the people sitting near him before every class. He even smiled at Billy from time to time. 

 

Billy considered that perhaps Public Speaking 101 would not be as hellish as originally intended when the professor announced their next assignment would be a partner project. And lucky _ lucky  _ him, Hargrove and Harrington were dangerously close together in the alphabet. Billy turned around to make eye contact with Steve when their names were called, and Steve gave him a small wave from the other side of the lecture hall in response, the sleeve of his button up billowing with the movement.

 

Billy felt a little weak in the knees. 

 

A debate - the professor announced - would be the next assignment. Pick two sides of an argument and debate.

 

Steve caught up with him after class, running over to him. “Hi,” he said, sticking his hand out for a handshake. Billy reached over to shake his hand, his blonde curls falling in the process. He shook them out of his face with an easy smile, tipping his head back and grinning the way he knew made girls - and a few guys, too, though his experience was admittedly limited - turn to Jello. “I guess we’re partners for the project,” Steve chatted as they walked out of the building together. Billy listened to the click clack of Steve’s slightly heeled oxfords as they walked down the marble hallway. 

 

“Guess so,” Billy responded, pulling a pack of smokes out of the pocket of his leather jacket. “Wanna smoke?” he asked and Steve tilted his head like he was considering it. 

 

“Nah. Trying to stay away. Lung cancer and all.” 

 

Billy laughed bitingly as he lit the cigarette. “One of those things. Bad habits. Hard to break, and sadly I don’t have much will power when it comes to resisting what I want.” Billy caught himself using a tone that was probably too flirtatious for his own good. But - luckily - even though Steve’s face flushed slightly, he didn’t comment on it. 

 

“Was that your last class of the day?”

 

“Yeah,” Billy responded and took a long drag of the cigarette. “You?”

 

“Yeah. I’m parked in this lot.”

 

“Me too.”

 

“Do you want to maybe meet up tomorrow? I know it’s not due for a few weeks, but we could go to lunch on campus and talk about our project.” Billy stopped walking when he got to his car. 

 

“Yeah, sure, pretty boy,” he responded coolly, enjoying the way Steve flushed again. “What time works for you?”

 

“I have a little time between classes tomorrow. Maybe 12:30 to 1:30? Are you free?” 

 

No, Billy was  _ not  _ free. That time synced up perfectly with his sociology lecture. But to hell with Professor Davies and her stupid droning voice. “Yeah, I can make that work.” His hair got in his face again but he let it hang there, curls in his eyes. He took another drag of his smoke. “Wanna just meet in this lot and we can decide where we wanna eat?”

 

“Yeah, works for me!” Steve responded with a smile. He looked down at Billy’s car as Billy unlocked the driver door, shaking his head and letting out a low whistle. “Shit, this is quite the vehicle you’ve got here.”

 

“She’s a beaut,” Billy answered, tapping the roof of the car and taking another puff. 

 

“What year?”

 

“73. Was my mom’s”

 

“ _ Love _ the color. Real groovy.” 

 

Billy couldn’t help but laugh. “Groovy? Wow.” Billy threw his head back and laughed again, hair splaying wildly. “Feeling groovy, just had my Cheerio-hos,” he sang roughly, and Steve’s mouth dropped open comically.

 

“Shit, I forgot about that commercial!” Steve shook his head, grinning at the memory. 

 

Billy chuckled again and finished his cigarette, stomping it out with the heel of his black boot on the pavement. “One of the greatest songs of all time, that Cheerios song.” 

 

“No way,” Steve responded seriously. Maybe the guy couldn’t detect sarcasm. “I Feel Love by Donna Summer is the best song of all time.”

 

Billy’s eyebrows shot up to his forehead. “No. Don’t tell me you’re into that disco crap.” Billy probably should have guessed as much, considering that Steve dressed kind of like how one could expect people on Soul Train to dress at their day jobs. 

 

“Crap? What the hell?” 

 

Billy scoffed and shook his head. “How can you like that shit?”

 

“Uh, how can you  _ not _ ?” 

 

“More of a Zeppelin kind of guy.” 

 

Steve nodded his head and squinted his big brown eyes. “Yeah, I could tell. What with the Robert Plant hair and all.” 

 

Billy rolled his eyes. “Better than Andy Gibb hair.” 

 

“Oh, I think I know what our debate should be about,” Steve blurted. 

 

“You’re on, pretty boy.” 

* * *

The next day they met in the parking lot by Billy's car. Billy had tried his hardest  _ not  _ to care too much about his outfit that morning, but had eventually settled on one of his tightest fitting crimson shirts, a long sleeved cotton thing that clung to him like a second skin and showed quite a bit of his chest, considering it had a deep v neckline. Low slung black denim pants with a slight flare at his ankles and a leather jacket finished the look.

 

And his hair was just as messy as it always was, curls forming a wild halo around his face and down to his shoulders. He had checked himself out in his makeshift vanity with a pleased grin, Blue Oyster Cult blasting from his speakers. 

 

Steve was wearing those glasses yet again, and a cream colored sweater vest/paisley shirt combination. His red polyester pants flared out dramatically over his heeled oxfords. Fuck, Billy should  _ not  _ be so attracted to this mess. 

 

“Hey, man,” Steve greeted with an easy smile. Billy felt a little twinge of irritation at this stupid pretty face, and his stupid attraction, and the stupid fact that even though he was  _ hours _ away from his dad he couldn't shake the feeling that he'd find out about all of this somehow. 

 

Not that there was anything to find out about. Billy took a deep breath and thumbed his macrame bracelet. In and out. Tried to calm himself before he fucked this up royally. 

 

“Hey, amigo,” Billy drawled back, leaning against the car, brown messenger bag in his hand. “Ready to debate?” 

 

“I’m mostly ready to eat,” Steve quipped, a hand in his pocket. His easy smile made Billy’s stomach tighten in something dangerously close to arousal.

 

They chatted on their way to the lunch spot, making small talk about their courses and their experiences on campus. 

 

“What’s your major?” 

 

“Political science,” Billy responded gruffly, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it between his teeth. 

  
“Oh, so you want to be a politician? I can’t imagine a politician with that hair,” Steve replied, and normally Billy would be angry at a comment like that, but there was no malice in it. Billy laughed and rolled his eyes. 

 

“That’s what my dad thinks. I’ll become a politician. First mayor, and then maybe a governor, maybe even president one day. Jokes on him. He wouldn’t vote for me, ‘cause I’m not a conservative,” Billy laughed bitingly and took another drag of his cigarette. He felt almost embarrassed, explaining his very loose plans for the future. “I think I’d rather be a humanitarian or something. Maybe do foreign affairs.” 

 

“Wow,” Steve’s eyebrows furrowed.

 

“Not what you expected?”

 

Steve’s eyes widened behind his glasses and he stopped walking. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”

 

“That’s a-okay, Harrington,” Billy replied easily, continuing to walk. The building they were walking to came into sight. “What are you in?”

 

“Business,” Steve replied drably. “Had no choice. Have to work for my dad’s company when I get out. He wants me to take over as CEO one day.”

 

Billy frowned and nodded his head, stomping out his cigarette on the sidewalk. He held the door open for Steve and they walked into the dining hall together. Billy only grabbed a piece of fruit and a sandwich for lunch, and Steve got a couple slices of Hawaiian pizza. They sat together in a booth in the corner, far enough from the din of conversation that they could actually try to be productive. 

 

“So,  _ disco _ ,” Billy started in mock horror before taking a big bite of his sandwich. Steve squinted and ate his pizza.

 

“You don’t have to act like it’s so horrible. I brought some records for you to listen to.” 

 

“Why do I have to listen to it if I’m arguing  _ against _ it?”

 

Steve shook his head and grimaced. Billy felt the slightest bit of dread in his chest. He could sense himself acting like a total asshole, and didn’t want to do that, not really. 

 

But some part of him, the weak part of him, was terrified of letting his attraction to Steve slip, and maybe acting like an asshole was easier than flirting on accident. “I just thought that you’d listen to my music, and I’d listen to yours. Just so we can… So we can, I dunno, weigh the pros and cons?”

 

Billy laughed and Steve wiped his mouth on a napkin before reaching into his bag and grabbing a few 45s. He shoved them across the table and Billy thumbed through them, looking at the titles and artists. “Hm. Earth, Wind, and Fire. No thanks. Beegees. Ugh. And… Chick?”

 

Steve scoffed. “It’s pronounced  _ Chic _ .”

 

“ _ Right. _ ” 

 

“Listen, you don’t have to be such an asshole about it,” Steve yanked the 45s out of Billy’s grasp and shook his head. “I was just trying to make this fun.” 

 

“What’s fun about listening to some corporate bullshit?”

 

“Wow. What an original fucking argument.” 

 

“Sorry if I’m not interested in mindless music about dancing and having fun. Sorry if I actually want  _ meaning _ , not some formulaic crap. A funky bass line, some guitar, some trite lyrics about grooving and boom you’ve got yourself a record!”

 

Steve’s face got red and Billy could just tell that he’d actually struck a nerve there. Fuck, this was completely unraveling. He felt himself getting angry against his will, heated about this stupid argument for no apparent reason. Maybe he was just the tiniest bit frustrated with himself, because  _ damn _ Steve was cute when he was irate. 

 

“Screw you and your superiority bullshit. You aren’t better than me just because you have long hair and listen to fucking… Rush.” 

 

Billy finished his apple and leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms. He should just drop this - apologize for striking a nerve and move on. He had never been good at keeping his damn mouth shut. It had gotten him in trouble time and time again. “I mean, it doesn’t surprise me that you like all of that shit,” he ground out, licking his teeth threateningly and gesturing toward Steve, frowning as he talked. “All pretty, no substance.” 

 

It was a low blow. He knew that, and it wasn’t even fucking  _ sincere _ . Steve looked pained, like he was more saddened by the comment than angered. “Wow. Honestly, William. What the hell is wrong with you?”

 

_ William _ . That made the blood in Billy’s veins boil. “Don’t call me that.”

 

“Isn’t that your name? William?” 

 

Billy slammed the table with his fist and Steve jumped. 

 

“No one gets to call me that. No one but -” he clamped his mouth shut, gritting his teeth. There was no way he was going there.

 

“Listen, I’ve had enough of this shit for one day. Write your piece of the project and I’ll write mine. See you in a couple of weeks,” Steve ground out and got up, his pants swishing around his ankles as he walked away. Billy tried his hardest not to stare at his ass as he left. 

 

He pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a deep sigh. Once again, he fucked everything up. He was good at doing that. 

* * *

Later, he sat on his dingy orange couch (which he had finally gotten the smell of mothballs out of) and took a slow drag on a joint, enjoying the fog that it created in his brain.

 

Until, of course, he started reflecting on his interactions with Steve, and thinking a bit too hard about it all. He always had a tendency to ruminate, and weed just made that all the more intense when he had something on his mind. He scrambled to find a phonebook, thumbing through the pages until he got to the  _ Hs _ . He found the number and dialed it quickly, but not before taking another puff of his joint and floating a little higher.

 

“Hello?” Steve asked, voice static-y.

 

“Steve? Is that you?”

 

There was a rustle on the other end of the line, like he was switching which hand he was holding the phone with. “Who is this?”

 

“It’s … uh. It’s Billy Hargrove?”

 

Steve scoffed. “Are you calling to make fun of me some more?”

 

“No,  _ no _ ,” Billy insisted. “I’m calling to apologize. I don’t care for disco but it doesn’t mean that it’s objectively bad, you know?” he could feel himself beginning to rant, which he tended to do when he was high. “I was being mean for no good reason. I know that. I’m an asshole. But then I started to think that some people - people like my fucking  _ dad _ \- don’t like disco because it’s too black or too queer and I don’t want you to think I’m some kind of bigot, okay? Because I’m not. I’m mean sometimes, and I suck at talking, but I’m not a hateful piece of shit.” 

 

“Jesus, man,” Steve replied, sounding like he was on the brink of laughter. “Do you ever stop talking?”

 

Billy laughed in response, maybe a little too hard. “Sorry, sorry. I tend to ramble when…” 

 

“You’re high, aren’t you?”

 

“Bingo,” he responded coolly. “But I’m not just saying sorry cause I’m high. I really am sorry. I want to give your music a shot, and maybe show you some of my stuff. I wanna be your friend, Steve.” 

 

“O- _ kay, _ ” Steve replied, actually laughing a little. “How about this weekend we do whatever you want, and then next weekend I can take you to my favorite disco club?”

 

“Sounds good to me.” It sounded dangerously like they were planning dates. Billy tried not to get his hopes up. “Gimme your address and I’ll pick you up on Friday night. I have something in mind.” 

 

“I’ll write it down and give it to you in class this week, okay? Somehow I don’t think you’d be particularly good at writing right now.”

 

“You may be onto something there, pretty boy.”

* * *

It was Friday, October 13th, year of our Lord 1978, and Billy Hargrove had the closest thing to a date planned with one Steve Harrington. After they had shook hands after class and made up, Steve had given him his address as promised. Billy glanced at himself in his driver mirror and took a deep breath as he waited outside of Steve’s apartment, which was in a nicer area of the city than his own place.

 

God, he was such a fucking sucker. He had picked his outfit so meticulously, eventually settling on a skin-tight white t-shirt with a studded leather vest that was about two sizes too small for him, along with denim pants and an embroidered belt. He had even put just a little bit of hairspray in his unruly mane of curls, in some kind of futile attempt to make them look kempt. Finally he lined his eyes with a kohl liner that he had stolen from his step-sister and figured that if Gene Simmons could get away with a full face of shit, then he could wear some damned eyeliner.

 

Steve exited his building and walked toward Billy’s car, giving him a shy wave. He kind of took the breath right out of Billy’s lungs. He crawled into the passenger seat with a smile. “Wow, look at this. Steve Harrington wearing denim.” 

 

Steve flushed shyly. “I figured that a leisure suit wouldn’t fit wherever we were going to. Speaking of which… where  _ are _ we going?”

 

Billy grinned and pulled out two tickets. “UFO at the International Amphitheater. Nosebleed seats, considering I got them so last minute.” Steve nodded and grabbed them. “Try not to be surprised by how much you love it.”

 

“See, that’s the thing, Billy,” Steve replied, turning slightly in the powder blue seat. It was probably the first time he had said his first name out loud, and it did stupid things to Billy’s nerves. “I don’t actually mind rock music. I love that one song…” Steve squinted like he was trying to remember. “The song that starts with the guitar all like bum bum bum, bum bum  _ bum bum _ .”  

 

Billy scoffed. “Smoke on the Water? How do you not know the name of a song that you love?”

 

“Well, maybe  _ love _ is a strong word, but I do like it.” 

 

Billy just nodded his head, amused, and started up his car. The radio instantly started blaring and Billy turned it down slightly, pulling into the road. The song ended and faded out, and a new song faded in.

 

“Fuck, yes,” Billy exclaimed, tapping on his steering wheel along to the beat and swaying his head, his curls swishing around him. “I love this fucking song.” 

 

“I think I know this one,” Steve remarked and Billy grinned.

 

“ _ Finished with my woman 'cause she couldn't help me with my mind. People think I'm insane because I am frowning all the time _ ,” Billy sang along gruffly, bobbing his head to the music. He felt Steve’s eyes on him and turned his head away from the road. Steve was looking at him, something unreadable in his face. “What?” Billy questioned amicably. 

 

Steve shook his head and looked down at his lap, a small smile on his face. “You’re a good singer,” he admitted. 

 

Billy tried his hardest not to grin like an idiot and continued to sing along, Ozzy’s voice blaring out from his speakers. 

* * *

Once they got to the concert and made their way to their seats, Billy felt a little unsettled, worrying that maybe people were looking at them and figuring they were on a date or something. And, God, he’d love for that to be the case, but Steve had flirted with the ticket woman on their way in and that had dashed his hopes real quick.

 

But the cheering in the amphitheater around him and the excitement of seeing a damn good band eventually began to distract him, and he began babbling excitedly to Steve about the concert and the band. 

 

“They’re from London, did you know that?” Billy shouted over the screaming crowd. Steve shook his head. Billy was going to talk more, but then the band were coming out, opening with the guitar riff of Hot n’ Ready. Billy immediately started cheering and dancing, and Steve smiled wide. From Pack it Up (And Go) through Shoot Shoot, Billy interchanged between jumping along to the music and shaking his head around to sneaking glances at Steve, watching his face to gauge his reactions. 

 

And, strangely enough, it seemed that every time he spared a glance Steve’s way, his big brown eyes were fixated right back at him. 

* * *

After the show they talked excitedly about the band, all the way from the venue to Billy’s car, and then during the car ride to Steve’s apartment. Billy parked out front and Steve hesitated, lingering in the passenger seat. “You could come up to my apartment. I could make something to eat?”

 

It was a bad idea. Billy knew it was, deep in his core. But he nodded and reached over, opening the glove compartment which contained a tiny leather pouch full of weed. Steve’s eyes lit up and they made their way up to his apartment. 

 

It was nice. Really fucking nice, with a big, leather couch, brown wood panel walls, and an accent wall of bright orange patterned wallpaper. “Wow,” he admired, looking around. “Nice place.”

 

“Thanks,” Steve responded casually and walked to the kitchen, shrugging out of his jacket and depositing it on the table. “Hamburger Helper okay?” 

 

Billy nodded his assent and began rolling a blunt on the kitchen counter as Steve cooked ground hamburger. He lit the joint and took a puff, smiling and exhaling, tilting his head back and fluttering his eyelashes. He knew he looked good, damn good. The hopeful part of him considered that Steve thought he looked good, too. 

 

Steve reached a hand out to grab for the joint and Billy handed it off, watching as Steve smoked with one hand and stirred the meat with the other. 

 

Steve coughed a little on the exhale and Billy chuckled. He rolled his eyes, continuing to cook at a lazy pace. “Haven’t smoked in a while.”

 

“Yeah, with the lung cancer and everything.”

 

“I used to smoke a lot. And then a friend of mine freaked me out by showing me a picture of a smoker’s lung.”

 

“Who is this friend? Maybe I ought to teach him a lesson,” Billy muttered, half-kidding. Part of him dreaded the answer, thought maybe Steve would correct him and say it was a  _ female _ friend, an old girlfriend or something.

 

Steve just chuckled good-naturedly and reached for the blunt again. His brown eyes were already slightly bloodshot, and Billy knew he wasn’t joking about not smoking very much. “Just a friend back home. His name is Dustin. He’s only… well. 13? I think? But too smart for his own good.”

 

Billy nodded and leaned back against the counter, taking back the joint. “Same age as my kid sister.”

 

“Didn’t know you had a sister.”

 

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” Billy drawled, staring into Steve’s eyes. Maybe it was his imagination, but it almost seemed like Steve glanced down at his lips, leaning ever-so-slightly forward. Billy’s breath came out shallowly and he stared into Steve’s eyes intensely.  _ God _ , Billy thought. _ Steve is going to kiss me. _ How nice that would fucking be, to press himself against Steve’s pink, pouty lips. 

 

And then the room was filled with a burning smell and Steve quickly returned his attention to the skillet, taking it off heat. Billy coughed a little and leaned away. “She’s actually my step-sister.”

 

“Oh,” Steve said, finishing the food. 

 

He looked a little disappointed. Billy tried not to get his hopes up. 

 

“Smells good, man,” he said, clapping Steve on the back. “I’ll let you have the last of this blunt as a thank you for your hard work, slaving over this stove. Without you I wouldn’t have any Hamburger Helper, and I probably wouldn’t have gone out tonight at all, so here. Live it up.”

 

Steve straight-up laughed at him, taking the blunt and finishing it. “Man, you  _ do _ talk a lot when you’re high.” 

 

They ate their dinner at a frantic pace, both of them suddenly starving. It wasn’t very good, but it was as good as Hamburger Helper could get, and on an empty stomach and with fog in his head Billy enjoyed it like it was the best meal he ever had. 

 

The two of them ended up sitting together on Steve’s leather couch, talking absentmindedly about anything and everything. Well, mostly Billy talked, the words spilling out of his mouth against his will, and Steve continued to look on at him with that same expression he had at the concert. 

 

If Billy didn’t know any better, it was a look of affection. 

* * *

The next weekend came rather quickly and Steve excitedly waved at Billy from the driver’s seat of his car.  _ Wow _ , Billy thought, noting that Steve drove a beautiful BMW, a model from  _ last year _ . Between Steve’s apartment and his car, Billy felt more than a little self-conscious about his own place, which was on the rougher side of the city and was pretty dumpy, even from the outside.

 

He got in the passenger seat of Steve’s car and his jaw just about dropped. Steve was fully decked out in powder blue jumpsuit. It had a tiny belt with a gold  _ H _ on it. Billy didn’t need to look at Steve’s feet to know that it flared at the ankles. 

 

Jesus, it was fucking  _ cheesy _ , like something out of Saturday Night Fever. So why did it make Billy go hard in his pants so suddenly, all of the blood rushing down to his cock?

 

“Hey, amigo,” Billy greeted, folding his hands in his lap. “Looking good.” 

 

“I  _ told _ you people go all out at this club.”

 

“Yeah, about that,” Billy sighed, looking down at his own clothes. He was wearing an open-chested blue kimono blouse, tied loosely just below his waist with a strip of fabric. He had chosen to wear the least worn out denim pants he owned, held by his embroidered belt. He thought he looked good, but now he felt uncomfortable. “I’m not exactly going to fit in, am I?”

 

“Well, no,” Steve responded and began to drive. “You kind of look like you’re in a Led Zeppelin tribute band.” Billy sighed audibly. “But it’s a  _ good _ look, man. You won’t fit in, but you look damn good.” 

 

He had a small smile on his face for the rest of the drive. 

 

Once they got to the club, which wasn’t all that far from Billy’s apartment, Steve parked the car and stepped out. Billy’s eyes widened as he took in the head to toe look, and had to actually look up at Steve’s face. He towered over him a bit, and Billy looked down to see that he was wearing platform shoes. 

 

“Shit, you look like John Travolta or something.”

 

“You know,” Steve grinned and began strutting down the street. “Coming from you that’s probably not a compliment, but I’m going to take it as one.”

 

“No,” Billy responded sincerely, reaching out and grabbing Steve’s arm. Their eyes connected and Billy felt his heart constrict. “I meant it as a compliment.”

 

“Thanks.” Steve didn’t move, continuing to look down at Billy. He finally took his hand off his arm and they began to walk, soon getting to the club which had a line of people and a bouncer out front, a dark-skinned man wearing a leisure suit. 

 

“Hey, Stevie!” he called out, gesturing for them to come over, cut the line. A girl wearing a fur shrug rolled her eyes at them. 

 

“Hey, man,” Steve responded. “Looking good.”

 

The man eyed Billy up and down. “Who is this?”

 

“Uh,” Billy responded, fiddling with his bracelet. “Name’s Billy.”

 

“You in the right place? No rock concert here.”

 

“He’s with me,” Steve replied, snaking an arm around Billy’s shoulders. Billy felt his stomach flip over. “He’s never been dancing with me before.”

 

“Oh, boy,” the man broke out in a huge smile. “You are in for a big treat, Billy.”

 

They entered the club and Billy was overwhelmed with how many people were packed in, all dressed like Steve and gyrating to the loud, bass-heavy music, under bright purple and pink lights. Steve immediately pushed through to the bar, where a slightly heavy-set girl stood mixing drinks. “Hey Barb! Where’s Nance?”

 

“Not here tonight,” she called out. She was wearing a jumpsuit, too, a white low cut thing that showed off her chest. “Your usual for you and your friend?” she questioned with a sly grin. Steve nodded and she handed off two shots to them, which they both downed. Then she quickly made two mint green things, sliding them across the bar.

 

“What is this?” Billy asked after taking a sip. He had to yell over the music. 

 

“Never had a grasshopper before?” 

 

“More a beer person myself.” 

 

Steve nodded and smiled easily, throwing back the drink in two gulps. The music changed and Steve’s eyes widened excitedly. “God, I love this song!” he called. “I have to go dance!” He spun easily on the heels of his feet, pointing toward the dance floor. 

 

Billy watched, enamored, as Steve essentially turned into a different person out on the dance floor, his endlessly long legs stepping to the beat, crossing over each other. His whole body would dip down slightly and pop back up with every step, his elbows bent in at his waist, and sometimes he’d clap along to the beat or spin around. It was effortless and fluid, and maybe Billy was already feeling the drink, because he looked like a professional out there on the floor. 

 

Throughout it all, his eyes were fixed on Billy, who was still leaning against the bar. He mouthed along to the song -  _ Do you feel like you ever want to try my love and see how well it fits? _

 

It felt like it was all for him. Billy was overwhelmed with it. His cock stirred in his jeans yet again. 

 

Steve shimmied his way over to him and grabbed his hand. “Come dance with me,” he demanded, tugging Billy to the dance floor. 

 

“Won’t it be weird? If two guys dance together?”

 

Steve scoffed, still stepping to the beat. “Hell no. Nobody gives a shit here. These people are cool.” 

 

“Okay,” Billy acquiesced, standing awkwardly on the floor. “I don’t know how to dance to this.” 

 

“Just move,” Steve continued to show up everyone else with his dancing. At least he was showing them all up in Billy’s eyes. “Just feel the beat of the music and move.” Billy bobbed his head along, his curls swaying around. Steve laughed and reached forward, holding him on both sides of his face. Billy felt like he could puke he was so nervous. “Not so much in the head, Billy. More in the legs and hips.” The song shifted again and Donna Summer began singing  _ I love to love you, baby. _

 

Steve placed his hands on Billy’s hips casually and they danced in sync. Billy started to get the hang of it, mimicking some of Steve’s moves. And then Steve was reaching into his pocket and pulling out a tiny bottle of - “Shoe polish?” Billy asked out loud.

 

Steve shook his head and laughed, inhaling from the vial. “No, just branded to look like it. Take a whiff. It’ll make you relax.” Billy inhaled without a second thought and felt his throat relax almost instantly. 

 

They continued to dance together, getting closer and closer together, inching their bodies closer until they were practically dancing on each other. Steve spun them around effortlessly and Billy threw his head back, laughing as his hair splayed out of his face. 

 

“Fuck,” he started to say, and then cut himself off. 

 

“What is it?” Steve asked, continuing to dance as the song changed yet again. “Say it.”

 

“You’re so fucking hot, Steve,” Billy breathed out in a rush and Steve clutched at his hip, eyes staring into his. 

 

“C’mon,” Steve demanded as he just about dragged Billy to the back of the club, through a door that screamed  _ employees only _ . Steve pushed him into the deserted break room and slammed the door shut. He forcefully shoved Billy into the back of the door, his shoulders hitting the wood with a loud thud. 

 

And then he sank down to his knees, so beautifully, and Billy’s mouth drooped open. He clutched at Steve’s shoulder and tipped his head back as Steve quickly unbuttoned and zipped down his jeans, freeing his hard cock. 

 

“Fuck,” Billy breathed, daring to curl his fingers in Steve’s feathered hair. “Holy fucking shit,” he gasped out, like he couldn’t quite believe what was happening. 

 

Steve licked a stripe up from the base of his cock to the dip, swirling his tongue around the mushroom head. Billy groaned, the sound ringing in his ears. Between the drinks and whatever they inhaled, plus the sensation of Steve’s gorgeous mouth wrapping around his cock and sucking him down, Billy’s head was swimming. He could feel Steve’s mouth  _ everywhere _ , the sensation making his nerves sing. 

 

And then Steve took him down further and further, throat opening so exquisitely around his dick, and Billy clutched at his hair tighter, whining. Steve took his cock down like a pro, and Billy tried not to dwell on that thought too much. 

 

It built and built and built as Steve bobbed his head up and down, taking Billy’s cock so deep down his throat each time. And then he glanced up at Billy, tears swimming in his brown eyes and whimpering around his cock, and Billy could not fucking resist. He let out a weak groan in warning and then was tipping his head back in ecstasy, the sensation of his orgasm making his thighs jolt and his knees buckle. 

 

_ Ahhh, freak out!  _ played from the dance floor. 

* * *

After that night, after the drugs and the alcohol wore off, all Billy was left with was the memory of Steve’s body dancing against his and the feeling of his mouth on Billy’s cock.

 

And the paranoia set in. A fierce, intense paranoia that his father was going to find out about this, somehow. Was going to find out, and come to Chicago, and murder him. He knew it was ridiculous. His father hadn’t so much as called since he’d come to school, content to remove him from his life.

 

But the scared little boy in him quaked at the idea of his father finding out that his son didn’t just  _ look _ like a faggot. 

 

He  _ was _ a faggot. It was a dirty, nasty word to use, but he kept repeating it in his head over and over. 

 

The fear, all-consuming, kept him from contacting Steve. Hadn’t talked to him for days. He didn’t so much as look at him in class on Monday, and the debate presentation loomed above him. He would have to face Steve eventually. But not today. 

 

Billy laid out, sprawled on his disgusting thrift-store couch, a beer in one hand and a blunt in the other. Dan McCafferty sang out from his record player  _ I'm young. I know. But even so, I know a thing or two, I learned from you. _

 

His mind was swimming, dipping in and out of reality, and he barely even registered when the record ended and the room was plunged into silence. 

 

Fuck, he was such a fucking coward. He knew that he was. But he couldn’t reach out to Steve. Couldn’t bring himself to.

 

He drifted off to sleep, the phone ringing over and over. 

* * *

Steve cornered him in the hall after their next class. “Why the hell didn’t you take my calls last night, Billy?” he demanded, hands on his chino-covered hips. “Why the fuck have you been ignoring me?”

 

Billy almost bit out something mean and cruel, but then he gazed into warm brown eyes behind wire-framed glasses and the fire melted from him. “I’m so scared, Steve,” he admitted, staring down at his black boots. Steve sighed and smiled, shaking his head.

 

“You don’t have to be afraid,” Steve replied, soothingly. “There are thousands and thousands of people in this city, Billy. No one is paying any attention to you.” 

 

It hit Billy like a ton of bricks. No one was paying attention to them as they talked, walking right past them in the hall. His father was hundreds of miles away, and hadn’t spoken to him in months. 

 

If they were careful about it, no one had to know. “I’m sorry,” Billy said, ashamed. “I just got so scared.”

 

“I understand,” Steve murmured. “But now you can make it up to me.” 

 

Billy stomped to his car at a frantic pace, Steve following behind him, his heels click-clacking on the pavement. “Where are we going?” he asked. 

 

“To my apartment.” 

* * *

By the time they reached his place he was not quite as frantic. A bit of panic had settled back in during the drive. But once the door to his apartment was shut, Steve put a gentle, soothing hand on his shoulder, and they were alone. And the panic melted away as he gazed into Steve’s eyes.

 

“Hold on,” Billy murmured. “I’m gonna put on some music.” 

 

David Bowie’s voice filled the room, crooning out,  _ I, I wish you could swim _ . Steve started to sway back and forth, mouthing along to the lyrics. “I like this song,” he said with a little, amused smile. 

 

“Me too.” Billy stepped closer to him, swaying too. And then like a force of nature, like gravitational pull, he leaned in, capturing Steve’s pouty mouth with his lips. Jesus, it was perfect, everything he expected and more. Steve wrapped his long arms around his shoulders, pulling him close and kissing him so deeply. 

 

Steve kissed like he danced, smoothly and elegantly, taking Billy apart piece by piece and then weaving him back together again. Billy couldn’t help but whine in his throat when Steve reached up and pushed his mane of curls away from his face, tugging slightly. “God, you’re stunning,” Steve murmured and dove back in, and all Billy could do was just take it, letting Steve kiss him senselessly. Normally, he’d have more moves than this, but he had turned to putty in Steve’s nimble fingers. 

 

Billy started stepping forwards, pushing Steve until the backs of his knees hit the ratty sofa. Steve fell, sitting down with a thud, and Billy straddled his hips with no hesitation. Steve had made any trepidation he felt melt away with every press of his lips, every swipe of his tongue. 

 

And then they were kissing again, sloppier now, both moaning and groaning into the kiss as David Bowie faded out in the background. “Fuck,” Billy ground out, leaning back and lifting his shirt up and off his chest. Steve looked at him almost reverently, before leaning forward and latching his mouth to Billy’s nipple, long fingers splayed possessively against his tan back. 

 

Billy let that go on for a few moments, rebelling in the sensation, until the need to see Steve was too great, and he started frantically unbuttoning his linen shirt, pushing it open and off Steve’s dainty shoulders. 

 

“Steve, you are a fucking sight for sore eyes,” he growled, leaning forward. He kissed and bit desperately at Steve’s neck. 

 

“What do you want to do, Billy?” he questioned, voice low and grumbly. 

 

Billy let out a breath, steeled his nerves, and gasped out, “I want you to fuck me.” 

 

It was Steve's turn to become putty, apparently, because he went all slack-jawed and started grasping Billy's hips desperately. Billy stumbled off of Steve's lap to pull his denim down and off his legs, and then tugged at Steve's chinos, finally getting to see Steve's cock.

 

God, it was beautiful, red at the tip where it curled up toward his abdomen. Billy wanted that cock in him, wanted it so bad his mouth went dry. He ran to the bathroom as quickly as he could, grabbing a tub of Vaseline from the medicine cabinet. When he came back into the room, Steve was looking at him with admiration, one hand down between his legs, stroking his cock slowly. 

 

“Here,” Billy murmured as he shoved the stuff at Steve, retaking his place on Steve's lap. 

 

Steve coated his fingers and reached behind Billy, rubbing at his entrance teasingly. Billy huffed and tried to relax his muscles, and once he had Steve breached his entrance quickly, swallowing his needy whine with a kiss. 

 

Billy swayed his hips, bearing down on Steve's fingers as he opened him up with one, two, three slick digits. Billy could hardly breathe and panted out, fingers clutching at Steve's shoulders. “I'm ready, baby. Let me have your cock.” 

 

Steve groaned and extracted his fingers, clutching at Billy’s hip and holding his hard member at the base. Billy lowered down and felt Steve pressing inside him, and he tipped his head back and wailed, blonde curls matted to his forehead with sweat. 

 

“Jesus Christ,” Steve ground out lowly. “You're so fucking tight.” 

 

Billy lost any semblance of control he had left when he heard those words. He rode Steve into the couch cushions, his thighs burning with the exertion as he bounced on his cock, over and over and over. 

 

He reached out desperately for Steve's hand and held it tightly, using his arm as leverage to grind down faster and harder. Pants and moans poured out of his lips sinfully, and Steve gazed up at him, still wearing his glasses. 

 

Steve's cock brushed up against something deep within him and his whole body jerked. Steve grabbed onto his hips tightly and thrust up, meeting Billy on every thrust and hitting that place with each movement. 

 

Convulsions overtook Billy's thighs and he could barely catch his breath. Steve began groaning, a low, desperate thing, and Billy could tell he was getting close.

 

Billy reached down to stroke his own cock, and with a hand on his dick, Steve hitting that place inside him so firmly, brown eyes fixated on him and feathered hair matted down with sweat, Billy couldn't resist the pull of his orgasm, shouting and throwing his head back. He was distantly aware of Steve's shout in return and felt Steve come inside of him. 

 

He collapsed forward, panting hard and audibly, and pressed grateful kisses to every part of Steve that he could reach. 

* * *

That Friday was the debate. Other students chose pretty typical topics - conservatism vs liberalism, pro or anti war, etc. etc.

 

So when they stepped to the front of the lecture hall and announced that they'd be debating the merits of disco as a genre, students perked up in their seats. The professor even looked a little excited. 

 

Steve was up first and Billy said a silent prayer for him to do well. Steve gave him a quiet look of affection and began an outpouring of words, speaking passionately about what the music meant to him, what it meant to be able to dance freely without any judgment, what it meant to find a whole community around the music. 

 

Billy was impressed. Really fucking impressed, and proud. And when it came to be his time to speak, all of the arguments he had against the music drifted away as he looked into Steve's eyes, raked over his slim shoulders encased in a dweeby polyester jacket. 

 

He ended up giving a lame argument about commercialism and left it at that. Not his best work, not by a long-shot.

 

Afterwards, in the safety of Billy's apartment, sharing a joint between them, Steve had given him heck for it. “I guess I changed your mind, huh? You  _ love _ disco now.”

 

Billy grinned and reached out, intertwining their fingers. “Not sure about that, sweetheart.” He took another puff and leaned back, his head resting against the back of the couch lazily as he gazed at the beautiful specimen of a man before him. “I do, however, have some pretty fond memories associated with it.” 

  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

A collage for Billy's look

 A collage of Steve's look

 I photoshopped Andy Gibb hair onto Steve. 

 Steve's jumpsuit (his doesn't have a hood)

 Robert Plant and Jimmy Page, main inspo. for Billy's look

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no one cares about this but me but.... shrug

**Author's Note:**

> Lemme just say what I know you are all wondering - YES Steve secretly took Billy to a gay club and I regret nothing.


End file.
